


love notes

by canvases (oilpaints)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 03:05:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9859304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oilpaints/pseuds/canvases
Summary: Shirabu Kenjirou gains two things: a secret admirer and a crush. Hopefully they’re the same person.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i’m honestly embarrassed about how cheesy and poorly written this is but yknow what? every ship has that one cliche fic™ so here’s the semishira version brought to u by me ft. severe writer’s block! have fun!

> _You’re irritating ~~ly cute~~_

Shirabu’s eyebrows furrow as he re-reads the messy scrawl on the small slip of torn notebook paper, and he flips it around to see if it’s signed.

The back is blank, save for the ink bleeding onto the page. He frowns some more, staring at his locker accusingly, as if it was at fault—and, well, to be be fair, the note had fallen out of it, so it at least deserves partial blame.

He sighs and presses his fingers to his temple.

The message was nearly unreadable. _You’re irritating,_ it said, but Shirabu could read the full message, despite the streak over the latter half.

 _Hate mail and a love letter in three words,_ Shirabu muses, rolling the piece of paper between his fingers. _I’m kind of impressed._

He folds it and tosses it back into his locker, contemplating. He runs the various options through his head, and settles on three of the most likely.

  1. One of his teammates was either fooling around or was dared to do it.
  2. One of his teammates left it there for somebody else.
  3. One of his teammates was a hopeless romantic and had a hopeless crush on him.



He sighs and tosses the note back into the locker.

He hopes against hope that it’s not the third.

 

/

 

The next day, there is no note falling out from between the folds of his jersey, and Shirabu lets himself breathe a sigh of relief.

 _The second option, then,_ he thinks, fiddling with the pearly buttons of his uniform. _Tendou-san probably just thought it would be funny._

He shucks on his jersey and shoves all thoughts about the love-slash-hate-note out of his mind, then hurries off to practice.

Coach Washijou would not take kindly to him being late, love letter or not. 

 

/

 

“That was probably _the worst way_ to toss in that situation,” Semi says, and Shirabu has to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes and walking away.

“If you say so,” he says instead, raising an eyebrow skeptically. “It earned a point, so I really don’t understand where you’re coming from, _senpai.”_

“Think about it,” Semi insists, “If you went with a higher—”

Shirabu actually rolls his eyes, this time, but he tries to be discreet about it. “With all due respect, I—”

“ _Respect_ ,my ass—”

Shirabu startles when he realizes how close they’ve gotten throughout the argument, their noses nearly touching. He can see the dark flecks in Semi’s brown eyes, shimmering gold in the early morning light, and the sharp line of his cheekbones.

Semi breaks away from their staring contest with a _tch_ , and Shirabu snaps out of his reverie, licking his chapped lips. He rolls his eyes at the older boy’s retreating back, and picks up the neglected volleyball rolling along the floor.

 _It’s still practice,_ he reminds himself, _you’ve got a long day ahead of you._

 

 /

 

Shirabu, feeling drained as he gets ready for afternoon practice, opens his locker and pulls out his jersey. A single piece of paper flutters down to the ground.

The voices around him blur, and he glances around to check that no one is looking before picking it up.

>   _You have really pretty eyes_

He raises an eyebrow and turns it around again, but he’s not surprised that it’s not signed. The messy scrawl is the same, as with the dark ink. It reminds him almost of the dark flecks in Semi’s—

 _Shut up,_ Shirabu snaps to himself, shaking his head. He shoves the note back into his locker, and runs the list through his head again. The first option was out, because he honestly doubts any of his teammates would go this far for a joke.

  1. ~~One of his teammates were either fooling around/was dared to do it.~~
  2. One of his teammates left the note there for somebody else.
  3. One of his teammates was a hopeless romantic and had a hopeless crush on him.



He still prays that it’s not the third option. Anything but that.

 

 /

 

Over the week, Shirabu gathers more of those little love letters—or well, _notes_ would be a more accurate description, considering they’re only ever a single sentence—than he ever wanted.

He throws them all in the trash, of course, too embarrassed at the thought of anyone finding out about them. Today’s note is longer than usual, he muses, unfolding the slip of paper.

> _You’re annoyingly pretty and I kinda want to hold your hand. It’s annoying._

He swallows, startled at the sudden heat in his cheeks. He presses his cold fingers to his face in an attempt to get rid of the sudden warmth, but it clings to his ribs and threatens to split his heart open.

He tries to rationalize this, but the truth is simple, in the end—nobody’s been so _persistent_ in their affections towards him before. At the end of the day, his admirers run away, because he’s never what they expected him to be.

He fiddles with the torn slip of leaf paper, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth.

Coach Washijou yells at him for getting distracted during practice, and he chastisises himself.

 _Don’t be dumb,_ he thinks to himself, _it could all still be a joke. This doesn’t have to mean anything._

 

 /

 

“Don’t overwork yourself,” Semi says, handing him a water bottle, which he gratefully takes because of his parched throat. “Try practicing receives more. Your form is sloppy.”

“Okay,” he hears himself say, and Semi’s just as surprised as he is, probably. Someone runs past them and nearly shoves Shirabu over, and they very nearly knock foreheads.

He stumbles back, and Semi blinks twice before starting to ask, “Are you oka—”

“I’m fine,” he says hurriedly, turning back on his heel and returning to practice. He sets and doesn’t stop practicing until it’s late and their assistant coach chases him out of the gym.

 

 /

 

He finds this note at morning practice the next day:

> _I never noticed the freckles along your cheeks before. ~~It's cute.~~_

On the back, there is no name, but another message:

> _Don’t overwork yourself._

 

/

 

Shirabu hisses when skin brushes skin and an electric spark glides along his arm. He yanks his hand away and turns to see Semi rubbing his wrist.

“What was that?”

“Just a small shock,” he says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It’s easier than he expects, when he feels more amused and fond. He quirks his lips in a faint smile. “Don’t be a baby, senpai.”

 

 /

 

The next day:

> _Your smile is the cutest thing._

 

 /

 

Shirabu Kenjirou is not dumb. His perfect grades and immaculate record can attest to this.

And so, it’s  _because_ he’s not dumb that he knows that Semi’s been the one behind all those small notes that he’s, well, started to look forward to over the weeks. Not that he’d say it aloud to anyone, but it’s the thought that counts.

He knows it’s not just his mind playing tricks on him and making him hope for something he shouldn’t. There’s only really two reasons, but they’re clear enough.

_1 _._ The timing is impeccable. _

The second reason was something he only found out recently, when Semi walked into the changing rooms with ink lining his arms. He was probably bored during class, because there were some sloppy doodles and song lyrics scrawled along his skin.

Shirabu caught a glimpse of a few words, and his suspicions were confirmed.

_2\. The handwriting is definitely his._

 

/

 

Shirabu heads over to Tendou’s dorm, carrying his upperclassman’s running shoes with him. He’d forgotten them, of course, and Shirabu was the one who stumbles across them.

He finds the door open slightly, and the gentle strumming of a guitar drifts out from the crack. He frowns slightly as words sung in rigid english accompany the tune, and catches the last few lines before the singing stops.

He nudges the door open to find Semi on his bed, fiddling with his guitar’s chords and rolls his eyes up to the heavens. _Of course,_ he thinks, when he catches no sign of Tendou in the room.

Semi glances up at him, noticing him for the first time, eyes wide.

“Your english sucks,” Shirabu blurts out before he can think better of it.

Semi scoffs. “As if you could do better,” he says, but Shirabu can sense some embarrassment in his words, a faint trace of pink in his ears. “The hell are you doing here, anyway?”

Shirabu holds up the shoes like a white flag. “Tendou-san left these in the clubroom. I just came to give them back.”

“Oh,” Semi murmurs, and he places down his guitar. “He’s over at Wakatoshi’s. Just leave them here,” he says, gesturing in the vague direction of Tendou’s side of the room.

He steps over a pile of manga lying on the floor and leaves the pair of shoes by Tendou’s sports bag. He turns around to see Semi fiddling with his guitar again, and says, “I thought you played piano.”

Semi glances up, as if surprised that he was attempting to make conversation. “Well, I do. I’m just trying to get better at this”—he taps on his guitar—“for fun.”

Shirabu hums nonchalantly, fiddling with his fingers. He glances around the room, eyes jumping from messy bedsheets to scribbled pieces of paper lying on the desk to a potted plant resting on the windowsill, green leaves perking up at the sunlight, bright red flower petals scattered across the floor.

His gaze wanders back to Semi, in the end, who pats the space next to him on the bed and asks, “Do you want to hear me play?” with a crooked smile.

“Sure,” Shirabu shrugs, but he smiles back hesitantly, settling himself next to him.

“Any requests?” Semi asks lightly, raising an eyebrow and grinning.

“No,” Shirabu says, heart on his sleeve and words caught in his throat. He shifts in his seat. “Just play. Anything.”

“Okay,” Semi says, and he does.

The birds sing along, outside, and the sunrays peek in through the curtains. The sky is blue and the wind blows softly through the window, like it’s whistling along.

Shirabu doesn’t hear all the words, too distracted by the way Semi’s hands move along the strings. The words to the song sound awkward and stilted on his tongue, but the plant by the window looks like it’s dancing to the melody.

Shirabu thinks it might be a love song.

 

/

 

Semi blows his hair out of his face when he’s done, the dip-dyed edges falling stubbornly over his forehead. His ears are tinted pink, and which Shirabu’s starting to realize is a sure sign of his embarrasment.

Shirabu swallows, and he plays with his fingers. “You’re actually good at playing,” he hears himself saying. “You still need to work on your English though. It’s awful.”

“Brat,” Semi says, but he grins, flashing crooked teeth. Shirabu fights the sudden heat flooding his cheeks. “Think you can do better?”

He can’t say no to a challenge. He can’t say no to Semi when he’s smiling like this—like he wants nothing more to play and listen to his voice.

“Better than you?” Shirabu says, tilting his head and smiling. “That would be easy.”

“Oh yeah? Name a song.”

 

 /

 

Shirabu comes to practice the next morning feeling happy. He’s rarely in such a good mood, but he presses his lips together to smother his smile. He opens his locker to find another note and gives in, his lips stretching across his teeth.

> _I like you_
> 
> ~~_I like you a lot_~~

Coach Washijou almost looks shocked at the fact that there is no bickering or arguing between them, and their teammates seem pleased at the thought of a peaceful practice.

Shirabu hides his smile behind each volleyball he tosses, and keeps the reason to himself.

 

 /

 

> _I knew it was you all along, Semi-san. But don’t worry_

Semi’s eyebrows furrow as he frowns. The handwriting is neat and in blue pen, written along a piece of neatly cut notebook paper. The script is definitely Shirabu’s, but he doesn’t get it.

 _I know it was you._ What—what’s that supposed to mean?

“Eita-kun~♪ What’s that?”

Semi smacks Tendou’s hand away, but the redhead stares over his shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Is that from Kenjirou-kun?”

“I think so,” Semi answers, frowning some more. “I don’t get it.” He turns to see Tendou whistling innocently, and glares at him. “Satori,” he says threateningly, “what did you do?”

“Nothing, Semisemi! I just—”

“ _Satori._ ”

Tendou grins widely, holding up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’ll spill! Promise you won’t get mad?”

“No promises,” Semi says, and leans back against his locker, raising an eyebrow.

Tendou smiles sheepishly. “You know all those love letters you write to Kenjirou-kun when you think I’m not looking?”

His eyes widen in embarrasment, the tips of his ears going red, but he still looks ready to strangle him.

“I didn’t send the letters!” Tendou says hurriedly. Semi’s eyes narrow. “Okay, I sent parts of the letters. Tore out tiny pieces. Just a sentence or two, I promise! Kenjirou-kun doesn’t deserve suffering through your attempts to be poetic. By the way, the last note, was it a song you wrote for—”

“You have until the count of three to run, Satori.”

“Oh I will, but just—flip that note over, okay?” Tendou says, throwing him a wink over his shoulder before he starts running.

Semi sighs, exasperated, and he flips the note around. He smiles once he reads the immaculate script and leans back against his locker again, pressing his face into his hands as he tries to stop smiling.

Maybe he’ll thank Tendou instead of attempting to murder him in his sleep. Maybe.

> _I like you_ ~~_a lot,_~~ _too._

 


End file.
